


phantasmagoria

by bekkaHo



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Multiple Universes, Bubble Universe Theory, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, also ik banksia is a rly weird name, can be seen as platonic idk, this is markhyuck even if hyuck's name isnt actually mentioned..., this was a novella that i wrote and adapted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28425510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bekkaHo/pseuds/bekkaHo
Summary: Mark's life revolves around two things and two things only: looking after his little brother, Jisung; and hating his Aunt who forces him to.But maybe things will change after Mark finds himself literally falling for a boy with brown skin and a soft voice, and maybe Mark will find himself in a world he could never have imagined.Literally.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Kudos: 5





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this is another attempt at writing a fic (well, it's already written, now).
> 
> coincidentally, even though i'm extremely multifandom, it's another nct dream fic. but i'd been wanting to adapt this novella of mine into a fic for a while, and i felt that markhyuck was the best fit for what i'd already written. it's also why it's set in first person (sorry?) and is probably quite ooc.
> 
> anyway! i hope you enjoy!
> 
> also, yes, i posted everything on the same day, what of it haha.

A breeze chills the skin of my face, brushing at the hair on my forehead and coaxing my hair to stand on end with the gooseflesh that forms. But I ignore my body’s plea for warmth and instead, I tuck Jisung closer under my arm when he curls into my side.

In this moment, it feels as if we were two brothers, alone in this world, wrapped in the darkness of the night, nestled in each other’s arms.

“Mark,” he yawns, voice muffled in the fabric of my jumper.

I hum in acknowledgement, but don’t speak, absentmindedly plucking a dark weed flower from the cool bed of grass on which we lie and twisting its stem into his hair. The tiny bloom makes its home in the layers of ruffled blond, indigo petals a dark contrast to the pale white, made blue in the night.

“Love you,” he sighs, snaking his bony arm over my midsection and effectively using my body as a makeshift pillow.

I crane my neck to look down at him and snort fondly, pinching the flower by its stem again and relocating it behind his ear. “I love you, too, Jisung,” I echo, smiling.

Letting my head drop back onto the grass with a silent exhale, I breathe in the night air. I detect no sort of fragrances, but the crispness of the breeze is a refreshing change to the suffocating stillness of the house.

I continue to sift my fingers through Jisung’s hair, and I dare to wish we could stay in this moment forever, away from the desolation of the world.

I stare up at the black void of the sky, clear of clouds tonight. I can see nothing in the deep lacuna, only illuminated by the harsh lights of the street nearby. In the absence of anything, I contemplate whether there is anything to be discovered outside this polluted world.

I close my eyes and endeavour to relish the short-lived peace of this moment, naive as it is, but when I re-open them, my efforts fall away to confusion.

The sight that greets me is not the vacant space of the sky, but one that is glittered by millions of pinpricks of light. Above me, a round illusion glows, casting yellow light on the black canvas.

I gape at the vision, filled with awe and acute disbelief. With wide eyes, I scan the brilliant spectacle and I am almost afraid of blinking and allowing the sight to escape me. But when I do, the twinkling lights remain.

After a minute, however, a twinge of pain begins to develop, sharp and familiar, on one side of my head, indicating the birth of a migraine. I groan and close my eyes, breathing through my nose.

“Mark?” I hear Jisung inquire, but his voice sounds a distance away.

I attempt to respond in kind, but the pain intensifies, and I am momentarily struck speechless.

***

When I regain my consciousness, I immediately wonder why I had allowed myself to fall asleep on the grass outside. But then I notice Jisung kneeling next to me and my aunt Banksia standing behind him, displeasure twisting her face.

“Get up,” she barks.

I blink up at her, then at Jisung and his uncharacteristically drawn expression. I blink again, then look away to the sky, but the dull expanse offers no answers to my bewilderment.

“Up,” she repeats, then turns on her heel to swing the backdoor open and without a backward glance, enters the dead house.

Jisung stays by my side in the sluggish minutes it takes me to lift my tired body from the ground, and when I finally manage to stagger to a stand.

A rhythmic throb pounds in my head and nausea swirls vaguely in my stomach, but I push the feeling to the back of my mind as best I can.

***

When we step into the house, Banksia is waiting for us. Or, more accurately, for Jisung.

The moment our eyes meet, her face begins to contort in contempt, and I cock my head and curl my lip, a silent question of her frankly childish behaviour, but slant my gaze to meet Jisung’s before she can react.

I shoot him a grin, ignoring the shooting pain in my skull, even as it makes his face blur in and out of focus. He smiles back, albeit hesitantly, before being whisked away by Banksia.

“Why would you go and lie on the ground at night? You must be freezing! Next time, you stay inside with me. He can go by himself...” Soon enough, Banksia and Jisung disappear into another room, her irritating twaddle trailing after her, leaving me to my own devices.

With a worn sigh, I make the executive decision to forego my usual routine of preparing Jisung’s things for the next day, and head straight for the sanctuary of my bedroom.


	2. chapter 2

Grey light pours through the window, bathing the small room in soft shadows.

With swollen, aching eyes, I squint up at the cracked ceiling, feeling only partly rested. To be completely honest, I don’t recall a time when I had awoken truly refreshed.

I loll my head to the side and catch a glimpse of my clock, which reads a despondent 6:24. Digging the heel of my palm into my tender eyes, I drag my body over, so I lie on my side, facing the window.

With a conscious far too alert for such an hour, I curl into the comfort and warmth of my bed and watch the lull of a breeze create rippling waves in the drapery, casting a pattern of shadows on the walls.

The repetitive motions create a lullaby in my mind, combined with the soughing of the wind outside, and I draw a shaky breath, closing my eyes against my unease.

***

I’m startled out of the depths of slumber once again, but this time, to the sound of shuffling footsteps behind my closed door.

Then, knocks. Three consecutive raps on the door. Jisung.

Sluggishly, I slip an arm from the cocoon of warmth from my duvet and repeat the rhythm on the wood of my bed frame in answer before heaving myself into a sitting position on the side of my bed.

Behind the curtains, the light is considerably dimmer, while the wind has grown harsher.

When the door swings open to reveal Jisung, I turn my head away for a brief moment, raking a hand through my messy hair in attempt to wake myself up further.

“Come on, Mark! It’s time to get up!” he calls, much too energetically. He bounds over to my bed, sing-songing, “It’s time for school!”

“Alright, alright. I get it,” I concede, frowning in mock annoyance. “Now get out, kid.”

***

By the time I stumble out of my room, I feel in a state of disarray in my fluctuating sleepiness, yawning until my jaw clicks and moisture impedes my vision.

A short while later, I find Jisung hunched over the kitchen counter, having retreated from my haven as per my request and purloined a bowl of dry cereal to shovel into his mouth.

Beside him stands Banksia, leaning against the edge of the countertop. Neither have yet caught notice of my presence, and I spy the exchange of smiles when she clicks her tongue at her son, admonishing him to add some milk to his bowl.

However, when I make myself known, the pleasant expression drops from her face, replaced in an instant by a stare of blank disdain.

Internally, I sigh, but make quick work of the tasks delegated from the night before.

Once I have finished packing Jisung’s lunch and schoolbag, I see the time. 8:01, reads the clock on the shelf, the numbers half visible under a thick layer of dust. Late.

“Hey, Jisung. We need to leave now, or you’ll be late,” I warn, volunteering his limp, though packed, bag for him to haphazardly sling over his shoulder.

A single minute later, we are out of the house, on the porch, watching rain shower the gravel.

“Oh, Mark, are we riding, today?” he asks with ill-contained excitement.

I don my helmet with a grin in lieu of an answer.

***

Under the light wash of rain, I watch as Jisung runs through the doors of his school building with his usual abounding energy and lack of grace, his bag slung over one shoulder and untied shoelaces a tripping hazard.

Then, he disappears, along with my joy.

I tighten my grip on my umbrella when a sudden gust of strong wind threatens to relinquish my hold on it, and sigh when a wave of rain bullets onto my skin and into my clothes.

I tear my eyes away from the now closed doors and start down the pathway. With a scowl at the dark clouds hovering above, I think of retracing my tracks and returning to the house but think better of it.

 _That house will never be home to me_ , I think. _Especially not without Jisung_.

And I think of my aunt, Jisung’s mother. The way she looks at me as if I am the certified scum of the Earth, and how she treats me like I am nothing, yet expects me to work and care for Jisung like a hired caretaker.

A low fire burns in my heart, the familiar sensation of my anger’s ignition. Even the copious amounts of rain spilling from the skies cannot douse my rage once its spark has caught.

As I tear down the road, ears fuzzy with the overlapping roar of unrelenting rainfall against asphalt, and the frenzied drum of my heartbeat.

Heaving hard, shallow breaths, I wrench my hand off the handlebars to cup my hand over my brow, blinking against the unceasing assault of wind and rain, but to little avail.

***

It happens in the matter of seconds, with no sort of pre-empt, all so sudden, it engulfs me.

When the vertigo hits, so does the colours. The blues, greens and yellows, muted under the greys and whites, flares and brighten until they meld to form another, strong and frightening.

 _Red_ , my mind tells me, but it screams the word so that it drowns all else.

I feel a cry tear from my throat, but I cannot hear it. My hands fly to cover my ears, and my muscles seize in shock.


	3. chapter 3

My ears ring and my head throbs. My skin burns as if it had been ripped from my body, even as adrenaline courses through my veins. There is a trembling weakness in my muscles that weighs me down as I try to move and find I cannot.

The searing beating of the rain bullies me at every contact, its heavy raindrops threatening to penetrate my skin.

Belatedly, I realise I am very much sprawled on a surface coarse and uncomfortable, but the hot pain that blazes from every part of my body dismisses the thought.

Fuelled purely by adrenaline, I manage to roll onto my side, but as I push to move my body further, a wave of vertigo and nausea floods my head, drowning me in the sick sensation.

***

A gentle pressure on my fingers makes them tingle, and the foreign sensation prods at my consciousness. I hum, and it lessens. Then, however long later, the touch returns on my shoulders. But, despite its tenderness, a burn of pain blooms under my skin, slicing through my mind.

With an aborted gasp, my eyes fly open. My muscles feel weak and shaky, body jittery, and in ample pain.

A palm touches my chest, and my breath catches. It, and another between my shoulder blades, guides my body into a seated position on what I swiftly realise is wet tarmac. I press a hand on the ground to steady myself, only to snatch it back when a sting dances across its heel. Deep blue scratches mar the skin, and on my right, they run down into the sleeve of my jumper. Wincing, I peel back the ruined fabric, and uncover equally shredded skin, trailing to a stop at my elbow.

I hear a sharp intake of breath and whip my head over my shoulder, blenching as the throbbing in my temples sharpens with the movement.

My helmet squeezes uncomfortably on my head, but before I can even lift a finger, deft hands are already there, prying it off. Then I catch sight of the hands that obscure my vision.

Strangely, the skin of these hands is not the pale blue that mine is, nor the near white of Jisung’s and Banksia’s, nor the midnight of others I have seen. The colour is dark, but rich and yellowish. Underneath it, I find that I recognise its hue.

_Red._

Once the helmet is displaced onto the ground next to us, I meet a clear, dark gaze. We sit closer than I had assumed, and I flush at our proximity.

“I- um...” I stammer, not quite sure what to say to him. Who are you? I want to say, as I track the movement of the wind in his soft, wavy hair, and the bloom of colour high on his cheeks, almost like a blush. Instead, I cough, “Help me up?” and hold out my left arm.

He looks down at the outstretched limb, then to my wounded one, then to my face, before scanning over the arm again. A sort of hesitant expression crosses his face in the twitch of his eyebrows, but after the pause, he grasps my wrist in a firm, but not uncomfortable, grip. His other hand returns to my back, and with the combined strength, I manage to wobble to a stand.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and I test my footing, rotating my ankles and shaking out my legs to regain some feeling in them. But, when I lean on my right leg too much and my bruised muscles threaten to buckle underneath me, he shifts his hands to my shoulders to steady me, hold stronger and more confident.

I draw a long breath, shaken and confused. The earthy scent of rain, despite there being none, hits my nose, prompting the memory of cycling down a road, wind and rain beating down on me.

I shake the image away. “Did you... Do you know what happened?” I ask, but I don’t look at the boy. Instead, I look over his shoulder at the barren street. The roads are shiny with rainwater, rippling with reflections of the clouds above, but there are no tyre tracks that disrupt the sheen.

He clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly, but doesn’t give an answer. He turns his head this way and that before fixing his eyes somewhere behind me. I follow his gaze, twisting clumsily to do so, and stare at the bike that lies in a puddle a metre away.

“Okay, well,” I croak awkwardly, feeling embarrassed to be in such state in front of this intriguing, wordless boy, “if you didn’t catch what happened, that's fine. I’ll go home and get patched up, then. Thank you for your help,” I add, and hastily limp over to my bike, breaking out of his warm hold.

The rusted bike lays half-submerged in the dirty puddle, flakes of paint falling into the runoff, and I almost wonder if I would even be able to ride it again. But, as it is, it is the only bike I have, and will ever have, so I bend down, wincing, and try to heave it upright. My palms burn at the contact, but I grit my teeth and ignore it.

Once it stands upright, I don’t bother with assessing my ability to ride it, knowing I would no doubt fail if I tried, seeing the condition I am currently in.

I cannot resist a glance back over my shoulder to see if the boy had left, only to meet the same dark eyes as before. They're warm. Not with any emotion in particular, but they appear to be warm, even as they reflect a deep blue sky. I blink in surprise, then frown. “What are you- You don’t have to stick with me. You can leave,” I implore mildly, looking for more words, but ultimately leave it at that.

He says nothing, still. But he places his palm on my shoulder and stares meaningfully into my eyes. He widens his own, raising his eyebrows slightly, and tips his head towards me.

I squint, uncomprehending. “Um...” I start, but a thought stops me. This boy, he hasn’t spoken a word, but he is trying to tell me something. Can he not speak? “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

He furrows his brow, pausing and letting his arm drop back to his side, considering my words. Then, he nods slowly, but still makes no move to leave.

I sigh and continue my path. “Do what you like, then,” I say wearily, bereft of the energy I need to deal with such an abstruse situation.

Meeting me stride for stride, he follows, and touches his fingers to my left, unwounded elbow, holding my arm lightly over the damp fabric of my jumper. I look down at it, but don't stop walking. _He’s very tactile_ , I muse, feeling only confused, if anything at all.

He dithers for a moment, fingers twitching but not letting go. Then, he opens his mouth. “I just want to help,” he says, finally. His voice is pitched higher than my own, slightly nasally, but the words come out clumsy and slurred like they're unfamiliar in his mouth.

He freezes, choking and widening his eyes in shock and disbelief. I stop walking and turn to face him, utterly lost, and somewhat worried. “Are you alright?”

Touching his mouth, his fingers flex lightly over his chin, like he’d never felt it before. I squint at him but let him have his moment.

Slowly, after a minute, he peels his palm away and nods, even though his lips are clamped shut, a knot deep in his brow.

As we walk, the bike’s gears squeak with every rotation, and the sound fills the open air. I guide us in silence, mentally debating whether or not I want to slow down to delay going to the house and confronting Banksia, or to speed up and cut this stretch of silence short.

I’m so lost in my idle thoughts; I miss when the other boy stops. But when I do, I snap out of my exhausted daze and turn on my heel, still cautious of my light injuries, question already halfway out of my mouth.

But the words stop mid-breath and the rest and escapes with the rest of my stray thoughts as concern and bewilderment rushes into my mind like a tsunami.

He’s a few metres away, but I can see the way his oddly coloured knuckles blanch when he tightens curls his hands into fists. He lowers himself into a crouch, fists pressed over his brow, and his whole body moves with each heaving breath.

Before I can step forward to approach, he groans lowly, then rises again. I notice a strange pallor in his complexion.

His eyes are fixed on me again, but there’s a pained frown on his face, eyes slightly unfocused as he stumbles towards me, tipping forward. He catches himself, jerking backwards to balance his centre of gravity.

It is a slow second before it happens, time dragging out as I watch the tense muscles in his face slacken and the stroke of his fanning eyelashes as his eyelids close. It is all I can do to just stand there in this split second as his body careens to the side, so he is tripping over his own feet. And then he’s falling.

 _He’s fainting_ , I realise with panic, then briefly wonder how it is _he_ who is fainting, when it’s my own head that is spinning.

A muted crash registers outside my cotton-filled ears as my bike, with no support when I release it, falls onto the asphalt, small drops of rainwater flying up, but I don’t look back at it. Because this foreign boy, who appeared out of nowhere, is rapidly following the bike’s path.

My limbs freeze in place, my breath catching in my throat as shock renders me immobile. Though it’s not what I see that unnerves me, but what I do not.

_He is gone._


	4. i

_A pale blue hand grips a brown one, tightening._

_Two figures stand together under the shelter of a drooping tree, one of the boys, blue skin ashen as he huffs shallow breaths, is leaning against its twisting trunk while the other says nothing as he holds him._

_The brown-skinned boy brushes damp black strands off a feverish forehead, his own brow furrowed with concern. While his own discomforting nausea had disappeared once they arrived on his world, his counterpart has grown sicker with it. He tucks the locks behind round, blue ears and wipes at the sweat beading on his temple, watching straight eyelashes flutter under closed eyelids._

_Even as creatures chitter and chirp around them, the gentle breeze sweeping through the trees with soft rustles while the sun begins its slow descent and the moon and stars emerge, they stay in each other’s arms._


	5. chapter 4

My head is spinning, heartbeat loud in my chest.

On my hands and knees, my breath comes in quick pants in the way it does when one is woken from a nightmare.

I rock back into a crouch, and when I scan my surroundings, I immediately recognise the nondescript houses and perpetually barren road on which I sit. The tall, overhanging jacaranda trees, still green in the autumn weather, wave at me, brushing the grey clouds with their branches.

Then, all at once, I see these things: the scratched metal frame of my bike collapsed in front of me, the various stains of rainwater, dirt and blood on my clothes, and the harsh, irritated grazes on my palms. Upon further, slightly panicked, inspection, I discover the continued track of abrasions on my right forearm under the torn sleeve of my jumper, and a deep scratch that runs from my right hip to mid-thigh.

_What happened to me? Did I... fall?_

I rake my fingers through my hair, ignoring the sting in my palm, sighing, then pause. I scan the area around me once again, but only see the wide spread of asphalt and sparse trees. _Where’s my helmet? There’s no way I could have forgotten to wear it with Jisung._

I drag my blunt nails over my scalp again, annoyed at myself for being so careless.

But, besides the resounding ache in my head, there seems to be no external lacerations. When I draw my hand back, my fingers are free of blood.

White spots dot my vision when I rise, and I have to stop to breathe as they fade, feeling disjointed as I move to straighten my bike, not entirely feel it under my fingers, nor the slight strain of muscle when I move my arms. Fortunately, before I can question it, the numbness fades.

I look at my bike, idly noting the fresh scratches in the metal and the patches where the paint had peeled off and consider riding back to the house. But, without the helmet and with a torpefying pain searing along my right side, I veto the idea.

I walk around the frame, legs unsteady, and hold it loosely with my left hand, then make my slow descent.

The racing of my heart has calmed considerably by the time I reach the front porch, the crunch of gravel under my feet and the smell of rain taking residence in my mind.

But, of course, the peace is short-lived, because Banksia is standing behind the door when I open it.

***

“You’re late,” is the first thing she says when she sees me. Irritation prickles under my skin.

“Late for what?” I ask, careful not to let the edge creep into my words.

“Where were you? What were you doing out for so long?” she fires instead of answering, jutting her chin out and pursing her lips, frowning at me.

I scoff. “What does it matter to you? I didn’t do anything incriminating, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did you meet with anyone without my permission?” she grills. _Here we go._ Over and over again, day after day, she will never give me respite from her incessant buzzing.

I dig my thumbnail into the knuckle of my middle finger, exhaling forcefully through my nose in attempt to contain my irritation. “No, aunt, I did not,” I grit, only just catching myself from pointing out how I do not, in fact, require her consent to interact with other people. Before she can say anything further, I brush past her, keeping my wounds out of her sight.

“I told you to come back home straight after you drop Jisung off to school,” she says, as if I were a small child. “We agreed on it,” she announces, following after me as I cross the living room.

I narrow my eyes at her words. _That’s news._ “Did we actually? Or did _you,_ like you do with everything else?” Even as I say this, I keep my stride until I’m in the bathroom, swatting the door shut and wincing at the bang. But I dismiss it, lacking the effort to care.

My heart pulses in my chest so hard and fast I can feel it in my fingertips, and my breaths come in quick, harsh puffs through my nose. The roiling irritation swims through my veins.

_Just the same bullshit every day._

My reflection glowers at me behind speckled and dusty glass, cheeks flushed and hair askew. Grinding my teeth, I sigh and focus on the matter at hand.

I grab a small flannel and run it under warm water, then wring out the excess possibly a tad too forcefully. Starting at my palms, I clean away what dirt and dried blood I can and pluck out some band aids from the cabinet behind the mirror. The distraction provides enough to calm my raging heart and erratic breathing by a minuscule amount.

After a cursory glance at the torn material at my elbow and hip, I want to bemoan my hastiness and lack of forethought to grab some fresh clothes from my bedroom.

I deliberate over coming out of the safety of the bathroom, which would leave me vulnerable to a very real nuisance, but ultimately decide that I don’t care enough to want to think about her, never mind worry. I grab a few boxes of a variety of bandages, rinse the facecloth again, and swing the door open. Armed, I walk out and head straight for my bedroom door. Thankfully, we do not cross paths on the short journey, though I hear Banksia’s movement in another room.

I make quick work of removing my clothes and dressing the shallow scrapes with ointment until the flannel is stained with blue and there is a small pile of scrunched bandage wrappers at the foot of my bed, the strong, spicy smell of the balm floating around my head.

There is really not much else I would rather do than sit on my bed and hide in a book, but the dryness of my throat begs for water and the bottle I keep beside my bed is regrettably empty. So, with a levelled breath of displeasure, I pull on my largest jumper and a pair of sweatpants to disguise the fresh plasters, then make for the kitchen.

Despite having eased my temper, it flares immediately when Banksia speaks, my patience still short.

“Why did you change your clothes? You know you still have to pick up Jisung from school, later.”

I look heavenward and let out a longsuffering sigh. “It was raining,” I say in lieu of bothering with an explanation she truthfully does not need, nor deserves, “and if I ‘know,’ which, yes, of course I do, then why remind me?”

I don’t wait for an answer and go to the kitchen like I hadn’t been interrupted. I fill my bottle with water and try to ignore Banksia’s presence a few metres away in the living room.

A few blissful minutes of near silence follows, but it is soon broken when I hear the drag and slap of thongs against carpet and then linoleum behind me, broadcasting Banksia’s approach.

My face flattens into a glare unwittingly as I turn to her. When she opens her mouth to speak, I hold up my free hand. And, before she can say anything, I brush past her.

“No,” she says, breath cloying in my ear, “listen to me!”

I whirl around on her. “Why is it that you think you have any right to demand things from me?” My voice is hard, impatience cutting into my words.

“If you keep staying out, I will take your bike.”

“What?” I sneer, then scoff. “If you take it, does that mean that _you_ will take Jisung to school and back?”

She stares up at me, with the close proximity between us, brandishing a frankly confusing bravado. “You will not leave this house,” she says, because she still has the misplaced belief that she can order me around like the trained dog she treats me as.

This time, I can’t help but bark a laugh (ironic). “You tell me to send Jisung off to school and back every day, while you fuck off who-knows-where, and now you’re telling me not to leave? Make up your damn mind.”

She opens her mouth to speak again, no doubt to offer another unfair ultimatum, or better yet berate me for my language, but I cut her off with a glare. “Just stop,” are my departing words as I stalk as far away from her as I can within the walls of the house.

***

When I reach my bedroom, I kick the door closed behind me, clenching my fists. My heart hammers in my chest, breathing shallow as I pace the small carpeted floor of my room, muscles tense with restrained energy.

An annoyed sound rips from my throat, the combination of a growl and a shout, and I shove my fingers into my hair, tugging and feeling nothing.

I sigh, but it sounds more like a snarl. Practiced experience of dealing with my aunt advises against pitching what few possessions I own into the wall, even as my entire being begs to do so. Instead, I attempt to calm my temper.

It’s difficult. More so than usual, with my mind a garbled chaos of rage and bone-deep exhaustion, my body aching with the effort of containing it. I collapse onto my bed, kicking my shoes off. A scowl knots my forehead, pinching between my eyebrows, and my breaths come quick and shallow. My whirling mind recounts the conversation, sparking the embers of anger again and frustration wells in my eyes.

With another forceful sigh, I snatch my archaic phone from the nightstand, scrabbling for my worn headphones.

When the music finally plays over my thoughts, I can finally breathe easier.


	6. ii

_When he opens his door to find his blue-skinned companion on his porch, he smiles, leaning forward to wrap him in a warm hug in greeting._

_They break apart after a moment, and the azure boy is ushered inside. He takes hold of the other boy’s tan hand, gently pulling him to a stop with a grin._

_The coffee boy parallels the other’s stance with a tilt of his head and a smile on his lips, waiting for him to speak, even has he does not._

_“Do you want to come with me later to pick Jisung up from his friend’s house?”_

_Though the gentleness of his expression does not fade, his eyebrows furrow slightly as he blinks in confusion. He swallows and finds his voice, rough and unused as it is._

_“Who is Jisung?” The words stick to the air between them and linger there._

_A cyanic hand, the one not laced with its chocolate counterpart, reaches up and combs through thick, black hair while pale eyes sharpen minutely._

_“My little brother,” he answers, searching the dark brown depths that stare back at him. “My cousin, technically, but you already knew that,” he adds, but his frown turns it into a question. You_ should _know that, it says._

_After a pause, his eyes widen under the watch of the other as the memory hits like rain. “Oh,” he breathes, “I remember.”_

_“So, do you want to come?” he repeats, face brightening._

_“Mark.” The name is said softly. “Your brother isn’t here. You left him with your aunt when you came with me.”_

_Mark’s face falls, paling. He blinks. Then blinks again. “I- I’m sorry, I forgot,” he whispers._

_What can he say to that? I’m_ sorry? It’s okay? He’s okay? You have _me_?

_Instead of saying any of these, he steps forward and curls his arms around stiffened shoulders, pulling him closer and letting the other boy’s head fall to rest in the crook of his neck._


	7. chapter 5

_The air weighs heavily with rain and after a moment, I realise it’s pelting my skin, threatening to break it._

_White spots swim in my vision, blurry as everything spins. I blink rapidly. And then I’m falling._

_I feel my body tip to the side, but I don’t see anything except for the flares of colour that spark behind my eyelids._

_Blue. Green. Yellow._

Red.

_There is so much red, the world is saturated with it until there is nothing left._

_My mind weaves through the tangled red mess of my unconscious, dipping in and through images and sounds and colours._

_Then, amongst the whirlwind, soft fingers touch mine. I open my eyes and a scene forms before me, vivid and bright._

_A boy is crouched next to me, short wavy hair falling over his forehead as he tilts his head to look at me. His hand feathers over mine before moving up behind to my back, his other ghosting over my chest to guide me to rise into a sitting position._

_I keep my eyes on him, drawn._

_His skin seems to glow, even under the overcast sky, cheeks flushed. But it is not the blue that I see in my own skin._

Brown _, my sleep addled mind supplies._

_There is light reflected in his eyes, and the stretch of a bright abyss behind it, but I cannot help but search the marbled patterns of his irises. The swirling browns and yellows that make a golden caramel._

_And in turn, he looks at me, even as the scene around us changes until we stand on a familiar street, metres between us. But once we are there, he looks away._

_As I begin to fall again, his voice, musical and soft, echoes in my mind._

***

The numbers 12:03 blink at me, watching me run a hand over my bleary eyes and mindlessly roll to sit on the edge of my bed. I close my eyes and I can feel my heart beating fervently, a flush settled under my skin.

I can still recall the images, all so clear and _real_ in my mind. I sigh, and an unbidden smile curves my lips.

I open my eyes and breathe deeply, and I am surprised to find an absence of any sort of ache or pain radiating in my skull, for the first time in too long.

What I do feel, however, is the distinct hollow feeling of hunger and a yearning for water.

When I push to my feet and stumble a shade too quickly across to the shut door, white spots crowd my vision, and I think of a kaleidoscope of colours that don’t exist. I frown and look around me, seeing the blues, the greens, the yellows, the blacks, the greys, and the whites, but no reds.

_This world is so cold._

The thought materialises in my mind suddenly, foreign but accurate.

I had never thought of this house as my home, and without Jisung occupying its small spaces, the sentiment could not ring any truer. Without his warmth, the house is merely a half-formed idea of a home.

As someone who has little freedom outside the walls of this mock fortress, and someone who can do nothing but care for Jisung in Banksia’s negligence and work monotonous nightshifts, there is little to desire in my world.

I exhale through my nose, closing my eyes briefly. There is little use in dwelling on such bleak thoughts, I resolve, and so I shake myself from my musings and escape the comfort of my only sanctuary.

***

There is a bowl on the kitchen counter opposite to where Banksia is hunched, eating from her own.

I falter in my steps when I see her, hesitation interrupting the flow of my movements. Because though the biting anger from earlier had been drained, habitual defences rise at her proximity.

Nonetheless, when my stomach rumbles silently, I emerge and make myself known, but do not speak. Instead, I take my place to her right at the square table we use in lieu of a dining table, pushing the bowl to myself.

I eat quickly, noticing the way the bland, overcooked rice concoction clings to the roof of my mouth, but I make no comment, dismissing the futile effort. Restlessness creeps through my veins, spurring my knee to bounce under the table and my fingers to press into the band aids on my palms, compelling me to abandon this stifling house.

***

I clutch my old headphones in my hands, shoulders stiff as I rush past Banksia again, having retrieved them from my bed. She is still seated at the table, but her bowl is pushed to the side and is flipping through a magazine with foreign characters on its front.

She calls out something behind me when I open the front door, but I hardly register the words and step out, shutting the door behind me. I sigh in relief.

The air is clearer now, clouds sparser in the sky, though there are still puddles filling the uneven gravel driveway, and when I breathe deeply enough, the smell of petrichor lingers faintly.

I uncoil the cord of my headphones and plug it into the jack of my outmoded phone, settling the headset over my ears. At the press of a button, music replaces my thoughts.

I decide to bypass my bike this time due to the distinct lack of skull protection, and instead opt to walk. To where? _Away._

***

I glance up and stop.

I recognise this street. Not by its trees or its line-up of houses, but by the feeling of kneeling on its wet asphalt and what kind of grazes it can make when you fall on it.

Suddenly, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, its loud beat accelerating; the music had cut out, as it often does. I only pay it half a mind and peel the headset off, lowering it. White noise fills my ears when I do so, but I ignore that, too.

Because there, standing two metres away from me, is a literal figment of my imagination.

 _The man of your dreams_ , my mind supplies, ever helpful.

“H- Hello,” I croak, awkwardly lifting my free hand in a wave. Belatedly, I realise that I am still wearing an old, oversized hoodie, and sweatpants.

Heat rushes to my cheeks as I watch his eyes dart to my limp hand, squinting, then imitate the gesture, almost as if he were testing the motion. He says nothing for a moment, but then, “Hello.”

When his gaze flicks up to meet mine, I startle. His eyes. Every flare of caramel and gold, colours I never knew existed, is the same as those I had seen in my dream.

_Or had it been a memory?_

Questions stockpile in my mind until they corrode my patience, my confusion and curiosity growing stronger than my self-control. “Who are you?” I blurt. My eyes widen. “I’m Mark,” I add hastily.

His gaze persists, steady and searching as he looks at me. “I am-” he cuts himself off when he glances down. He reaches for my hand, brown against blue, and touches his fingers to my covered palms. “We need to talk.”


	8. iii

_“Do you regret it?”_

_“Never.”_


	9. chapter 6

Silence stretches and yawns between us.

I tug at the blades of grass under my palm, hearing them snap, then sprinkle them into the wind, watching them fall a distance away.

The quiet isn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but the questions that gnaw at my thoughts are. I still the motion of my hand, smacking it inertly onto the bed of cut grass, and turn to look at the perplexing boy on my right. His legs are stretched out in front of him and he rests his folded arms on his knees. He appears to be utterly consumed by his thoughts.

“Who are you?” I whisper, echoing my previous question. “What’s your name?” I feign casualty, asking loud enough to break his trance. He turns his head, touching his ear to his shoulder. The way his hair sweeps over his forehead with the motion, rich and wavy, but short enough to tickle his eyebrows, but not his eyelashes.

“I don’t have a name,” he breathes, voice low. He is serious.

“Why not?” I ask softly, and it seems that this was the question he had been anticipating.

“I don’t have a name in the sense that others call me by one, because in my world, people don’t use voice to communicate, but touch. With our hands and our bodies, we make our words.”

I am almost afraid to release the barrage of questions, facing this unknown without knowing how to make sense of it.

“Your world?” I venture.

“I mean this in a literal sense,” he replies, then pauses to deliberate over his next words. “Mark, you and I live in different worlds. Different universes.”

“What?” I wheeze. _How is that possible?_

He leans over, folding his legs underneath him to face me, bracing his palms on the grass between us. “ _Mark,_ ” he says imploringly, “by some miracle, we could meet. Our universes are colliding but will later separate.”

“Oh,” I say mildly, for lack of better things to say. Everything he is saying is so _surreal_ , it could not possibly be the truth. “But— how do you know this?”

He smiles, and his whole face glows with it. “This research is the work of my people. My whole planet and the neighbouring all specialise in this field.” He cups my hands in his palms, encircling my wrists with long fingers.

“So then, what’s happening? _Why_ is this happening? Why us?”

He traces the lines of my fingers, still smiling. “In the overlap of our two universes, we’ve been caught in the middle, along with plenty others, I’m sure. But as long as our universes are in collision, I can be here in your world, and you can be in mine, if you wished.”

“What?” I breathe. “Really?”

His palm presses against mine and he laces our fingers together. “You could even live in my universe,” he whispers. I watch an excited flush rise to his cheeks, mirroring my own, only pink, not blue.

“Let me see,” I say, and the words are carried by the light breeze around them as a lightness fills my chest for the first time.

_Hope._

**Author's Note:**

> even though I had intended this to be a standalone, there's a chance I may write a sequel :)


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